


wriggle

by goodnightfern



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Little Lovecraftian, Blood Kink, Drug Use, Guro, Just Straight Up Guro, M/M, PWP without the porn, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: Dean's surgeon seems a little shady, but he can't be any worse than an internal infestation of terror leeches.





	wriggle

**Author's Note:**

> well, this is a thing i wrote.

"Are you even a real doctor?"

"Are you even a real FBI agent?" The paper mask muffles a chuckle.

Dean rolls his eyes, thumps his head back on the steel table. "Cut the snark, Cas." Hopefully Bobby burned his fed suit already. There’s no soap in the world strong enough for freaky tentacle monster jizz. Dean showered for two hours straight and he still smells like it.

"I'm the one who's about to take a scalpel to your sternum. That's _Doctor_ Castiel to you, sir." A few drops squirt out of the syringe when he tests. Whatever was in there is weird and blue and shiny. Like something Dean has only seen a few times in his life. Ever since the angels fell to Earth, Grace had started popping up on the occult market. The power of Heaven, concentrated in liquid form. Salt and silver and dead man's bones had always served Dean well enough, though.

"Castiel. Like the angel."

"Like the angel."

"Heard about you. Heard the other angels cast you out of the flock." The internal politics of angels were six leagues above Dean’s pay grade, but anyone who knew anything about the angelic orders knew the name Castiel.

"So they did,” Cas says, lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

Depending on who you asked, Castiel might have been responsible for all the angels falling three years ago. Depending on who you asked, Castiel was basically worse than Lucifer.

If you asked Bobby Singer, Cas was the guy to call if you needed, say, emergency surgery to dig said freaky tentacle monster's spawn out of your guts.

"So how'd you end up doing back-alley surgery on hunters?" Bobby’s panic room wasn’t exactly a back-alley, but then again. Cas had pulled up in a windowless white van. Shady all over, from his mirrored sunglasses to his alligator boots.

"I watched your species form from mud. Suffice it to say, I have extensive knowledge of your anatomy."

"That’s not what I - oh, fuck," Dean hisses. The things are wriggling again. A horrible lump rises up out of his abdomen, pulsating. Goddamn terror leeches. "Whatever, _Doctor_ Castiel. Can you please just get these fucking things out of me already, amen."

"That's more like it," Cas says, preening. Even fallen, angels still had those damn egos. Not like Dean has the time to nag at him, not when he's about trust this guy to dig terror leeches out of his body. Besides, he might not be a chemist, but he's always been a little bit curious about whatever Grace is. Sam's writing his honor thesis on it. Sam has seen Grace paralyze a full-grown werewolf, just like that. Sam got high on some admixture of Grace and said it was like kissing the toes of God. The Miskatonic Department of Chemistry nearly kicked him out of school for that stunt, but it was all in the name of science.

When this is all over, Dean thinks he ought to ask Cas what he's doing for dinner. He just might be an interesting guy to talk to. But first, terror leeches.

Dean's veins light up when Cas injects him, glowing blue and tingling and he swears his skin is vibrating. There's no way this works as anesthesia, and he's about to scream when Cas lifts the scalpel, but his skin splits nice and clean, completely painless. Cas cracks open his ribs, and it's like Dean just popped his back. Whatever Grace is, it's fucking fantastic.

"You're lucky," Cas says. "Usually by the time I get here, the host's gone full _Cthulhu fhtagn_. You got me just in time, Dean."

"Gruughhh," Dean says. His vocal cords don't seem to work, and his tongue is as fat and heavy as the leeches inside him. "Blugh," he adds.

"Hold still. There's a boy." Cas's hands are working deep inside of him, but one comes up to stroke his cheek with the back of the wrist. His fingers, curled up and away, are full of blood and slime. It takes a moment for it connect that that's Dean's blood. Dean wants to laugh. "You're doing great," Cas says, and he hasn't even started yet.

Through the haze of the drug, it's soft. Careful and tender, even though Dean knows he must look a mess. He wants to see, but Cas keeps gently elbowing him in the forehead. A gentle roar fills his ears, and he can't hear what Cas is saying.

Then Cas lifts his hands, and that's a piece of Dean in them. Slippery and wet and red. One of the leeches is attached to the intestine, and now Dean watches Cas's long fingers pinch, nudge under the mouth, and pry it off. Miniature jaws grasp for empty air. The purple thing wriggles, trying to escape, but Cas holds it firm. He sets it somewhere Dean can't see before slipping the intestines back in place.

Dean watches the muscles on Cas’s arm flex as he digs inside of the chest cavity. The hairs on his forearm brush a rib, and Dean swears he can feel the butterfly kiss. Another tug, a popping sound, and Cas pulls up another leech fat off Dean's blood. For a moment Dean wonders if he’ll just squeeze it to death. Let it burst open between his fingers and let Dean's blood rain down. When Cas sets it aside, he's bizarrely disappointed. He just wants to see those fuckers die. That's all.

As the Grace works into his system, the colors turn Technicolor, blood lurid and gleaming against the blue latex of Cas’s gloves. It’d make a nice photo. One Dean would keep in his wallet forever, right next to the picture of his mom and Sammy’s high school graduation photo. Back when he was still little and cute.

Something squelches inside of Dean. Now Cas is feeling around his kidneys, lifting them to check underneath. Another twist and pop, another leech. Dean finds himself holding his breath whenever Cas finds a leech. One on his liver, another on his stomach. Cas’s hands move up, higher, until his knuckles brush Dean’s heart every time it beats.

“Breathe,” Cas says. “It’s okay. You’re doing great.”

Dean breathes. Dean does just great.

Time slips too fast, a haze of soft pressure and squeezes. Before Dean even knows it, Cas is twisting a lid on a jar full of leeches and preparing to close Dean up.

“Wait,” Dean chokes out.

Cas pauses. “Wait for what?”

“One last check.”

“They’re all out, Dean.” Cas says. Dean twists on the table, and his eyes crinkle. It might be a smile, if only he didn’t have that mask on. “Fine. I’ll look again.”

His hands make a juicy sound when they slide back inside. Cas dutifully checks each inch of intestine, holding them up so Dean can see, too. He lifts each lobe of lung, feels around the heart.

“You’re good,” Cas says.

“I’m good?”

“I promise.”

When Cas closes him up, his ribs seem to sizzle. That’s just the Grace, working through the bone and flesh. Cas leaves him alone and open to wash and change gloves. Open to air, Dean suddenly feels quite naked. But Cas comes back, stitches him up with tight, precise movements. The effects of the Grace are subsiding, but Dean still finds his hands horribly beautiful.

“Grace tends to heal too fast, I find. I once sealed an infection inside a patient. He survived,” Cas adds, “but, still. The body needs its own time to heal. Don’t get it wet, don’t put anything on it. If any signs of infection develop - redness or swelling, warmth, chanting voices, pus leaking, shadow people sightings, or fever - give me a call.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Dean says, hoarse. The thought of sitting up is too much right now. Cas pulls off his mask and gloves, pats Dean on the cheek again. His hand is warm from being inside of Dean.

“No, thank you. The seeds of Yog-Sothoth are rarely found in a larval state.” Cas chuckles, deep and throaty. “Normally I only see them as medusas. Those are significantly harder to remove.”

“Medusa? Like, with tentacles?” Dean shudders.

“With tentacles.” Cas raises the jar to the light. “Say hi to your brother for me, will you?”

“You know Sam?”

“I’ve collaborated with the Miskatonic University many times. Your brother’s work on my kind is interesting, if a little… invasive.”

“He’s got some kind of angel fetish.”

Cas huffs a laugh at that. “What about you?”

Heat rises to Dean’s cheeks. “Nah, man. I’m just a hunter.”

“That’s a pity. Here I was about to ask what your plans for dinner were.”

Dean blinks up at him. That was supposed to be his line. Then again, after having his intestines juggled around, eating is the last thing on his mind. Besides, the jar of wriggling things is like, right there. Swallowing, Dean looks away from the jar. “I don’t think I can even eat for a week.”

“Opening people up always makes me hungry.”

“That’s….”

“Sick. I know.”

Maybe - _maybe_ just a little bit hot. Scary, sure, and beyond sick. But a little bit hot. There’s something buried there, in the back of Dean’s mind. The part of his brain that wanted Cas to check one more time, just to feel his hands again. Sam has an angel fetish, and Dean has a fallen-angel-pulling-apart-his-guts fetish, and that’s something Dean never, ever needed to know about himself.

“I’ll just watch you eat,” Dean decides. “But yeah, sure. Let’s do dinner.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean hungry for food,” Cas says, and the sick bastard actually licks his lips.

Even spread out on a surgery table in Bobby’s panic room with the stink of his own blood thick in the air, not five minutes after being opened up and dug around inside, Dean can still get horny. And the cock of Cas’s brow, the dart of his tongue - it does it for him. He could blame it on the Grace. Some lingering aphrodisiac effect. Or he could blame it on the fact that, yeah, he’s kind of a sick bastard himself.

Still, though. Dean sits up gingerly, the stitches on his chest groaning, and brushes imaginary dirt off his shoulder. “Right here? While I’m still healing from major surgery? While the leeches of Yog-Sothoth watch?” Hopping off the table, he does his best to look affronted. “Can’t even buy a guy a drink first?”

Cas tilts his head, squinting. “Was my innuendo misplaced?”

“Trying to bang a guy you just did surgery on? I think you just violated the Hippocratic Oath right there.”

“I’m not the one who had a boner throughout the entire operation.”

“What - oh, fuck,” Dean says, and looks down at his crotch. Nothing but a paper apron over his dick. Perfect. “That’s - I just - “

“It’s okay. It happens. Especially on Grace.” Cas is shaking with silent laughter. He thumbs Dean’s cheek again. “But, hey. You got my number.”

That he does. After Cas drives off in his spooky van, Dean sits on Bobby’s couch and smiles stupidly at the new entry in his phone.

 _Dr. Sexy._ Just like on TV.

**Author's Note:**

> they gonna get freaky


End file.
